


Nightmare

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 02:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Sam's nightmares are back in full-force, and the reader tries to offer him comfort.





	Nightmare

It figures that this is the first night in weeks that you can’t sleep.

Dean is off entertaining one of the locals, so you and Sam are the only two in Room 113. You like having a bed to yourself--which doesn’t happen often when you’re out on a hunt with both brothers. Not that you mind alternating between sharing a bed with Sam and Dean, but there’s no denying being able to stretch out and take as many of the covers as your heart desires is a treat.

You’re exhausted from researching all day, and the steady hum of the nearby air conditioner is not even lulling you to dreamland. You’ve succumbed to watching headlights flit past the drawn curtains. Thrilling stuff.

At least Sam is asleep. He’d admitted to catching only a few hours’ worth over the last couple of nights. Though he didn’t say it explicitly, you’d assumed the cause of his insomnia was hints of evil flashing in his unconscious mind. It devastates you to see the bags of restlessness and depression under his eyes. He’s been through so much and deserves the luxury of getting a good night’s rest.

Sam twitches under a single, scratchy sheet. You silently curse yourself for thinking of his nightmares, worrying you somehow set one free. You hold perfectly still for a few moments, and then, you hear him sigh. You expel a breath of relief as well.

Turns out, your reassurance settled in too soon.

Sam’s entire body jerks, startling you. While your heart rate steadily increases, you hear him whimper. The sound cuts through you, leaving your sense of security bleeding.

“No...” His voice is small, fragile. “N--”

You bolt upright, preparing to go over and wake him.

Then, he screams. It’s ragged and earth-shattering. You freeze, your body unsure how to respond to a noise that resonates with nothing but danger in your hazy mind. Before you can get your brain back in the moment, Sam is on his feet, panting and beelining for the room’s front door.

At a cautious pace, you follow his path. Gazing through the wide-open entrance, you see him gripping onto the railing that aligns the sidewalk in front of the rooms.

You step on something hard, and turn your attention to the floor. Underneath your toes, you see the object shining. _No, it can’t be._ You bend down to get a better look. _It is._ It’s the security chain from the door. Sam exited so urgently, it snapped and flew halfway across the room.

A dull splattering gains your attention. Glancing back up to the broken man illuminated by fading moonlight, you catch him leaning further over the support bar and being ill in the bushes. You want to run the last few feet to him, but you will yourself to walk slowly.

Once he’s within your reach, you stop. His focus remains on the nearly-empty parking lot as he breathes heavily. You’re pretty sure he’s not even aware that you’re there. Gingerly, you stride up to the railing. You stand several feet parallel to him.

All at once, he turns his head in your direction and flinches. The look in his eyes is similar to a caged wild animal, and you feel the blood drain from your body. He is completely terrified, and it’s all you can do not to wrap him in your arms without a second thought.

“Hey,” you venture, worrying the soft word got drowned out by a distant dog howling.

His chest is still heaving, but his eyes have softened. He recognizes you again, which offers a little relief.

You close some of the distance between the two of you by taking a couple of horizontal steps. Your right hand slides along the railing, resting beside his left. His knuckles shine a bright white in the midnight lighting. You look to his face. He’s watching your fingers. He still seems a little dazed, but also like he’s waiting for something.

Your hand hovers just above his. Normally, you’d grab on tight, but you’re afraid it might be too much for him at the moment. “May I?”

His gaze never leaving your hands, he nods quickly. You do your best to cover his large one with your own. Immediately, you feel that he’s trembling. Taking him in, you observe how tight his jaw is, how the small lock of hair that dangles by his nose seems to have a pulse.

Desperate to bring him down from the tormented adrenaline high, you remove your grasp on his hand and slide your palm across his back. The muscles beneath your touch are so strained, you fear they’ll snap. As gently as you dare, you start to rub small circles between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale, but that’s the only difference in his demeanor. His stance remains unchanged as the minutes go by, but you don’t stop massaging. Not until you hear the sniffle.

“Sam.”

He wilts like a flower before your eyes. You feel him go slack beneath your fingertips. You grasp his hip--an instruction to turn his body toward you. His arms slink from the railing and fall to his sides. Nervous he may collapse, you wrap him in a hug, securing his waist. With him being such a tall guy, your cheek only reaches his chest. His t-shirt is soaked in perspiration, but you bury your face into it, nonetheless. He doesn’t respond in any way, and you have no idea what to do next. So, you just hold him.

A surprising amount of time passes, and you feel you have to do _something_. How is he even still standing at this point? Tilting your neck back to see him, you ask, “Do you want to go inside?”

He finally makes eye contact. The size of his pupils is severely cutting into his ever-changing-but-always-captivating irises. Beyond the dynamic orbs, everything is stained red--even the surrounding skin. His bottom lip twitches so subtly, you could’ve missed it.

Turns out, his voice is shaky, too: “I-I don’t want to sle-ep.” He tries to cement his jaw, fails, and a chunk of ice settles into your gut.

“Okay,” you agree to his terms. Despite every instinct you have, you let go of him. He heads into the room without acknowledging you any further. As you settle into his bed, you watch him at the sink in the bathroom. He rinses the sweat from his face and the sick from his mouth.

When he sees where you’ve come to rest, his feet abruptly stop. He’s still halfway across the room, but you extend your hand in his direction. To your surprise, he comes forward and takes it. At the side of the bed now, he glances nervously at the free pillow. You wait.

He gently releases his grip on your fingers and climbs in, facing you once he lies down. Not a word is spoken, but you explore the depths of each other’s gaze. Fear, exhaustion, defeat, and a hint of something you can’t quite make out read in his. You briefly wonder what reflects in yours.

You examine a tear as it brims on his lower lash line, slips into his tear duct, and cascades down the side of his nose. With a pace practically in slow motion, you lift your thumb and brush away the little hint of misery. He closes his eyes when your skin finds his. You run a couple of fingers through his damp bangs before cupping your palm against his cheek. His lids only reopen once you’ve removed your touch. Something you swear is disappointment plays in his expression.

You take his hand one more time, holding it tight in both of your own. You press your shared grasp up against your chest. Locking eyes, you swear to him: “I’ve got you.”


End file.
